"Be quiet, knave!" exclaimed the valet, checking a second neigh of anxiety from the black horse, as the bark disappeared. "I doubt I had better make thee fast yet, or thou'lt be off into the river after our master, and leave me here behind." He unbitted both the horses, loosened the girths of their heavy saddles, and clothing them as well as he might with the spare mantello and their own housings, fed them copiously with meal that had been brought along. Then, first feeling for the rosary within the breast of his garment, he drew his good broadsword from its scabbard, gave a last glance to see that his beasts were in safety, and seated himself, with his face to the river, at the foot of the most convenient tree he could select. And in this position, well on the alert to guard against surprise, and recommending himself especially to the protection of St Jago, with his weapon in one hand, and his wine-flask in the other, in silence he expected the event. * * * * * It was a chamber for luxury to dwell in, that in which the Countess Arestino lay, suited to tastes which knew no limit but their will, and decked for climates to which winter was a stranger. The walls were hung with draperies of pale-blue silk; richly wrought carpets--the treasures of the East--were spread at intervals upon the floor of shining marble. Oil from the Tuscan olive, mixed with frankincense and myrrh, burned in silver lamps, whose pale flames lighted the lofty chamber without sullying its delicious coolness. And in every window, flowers disposed in vases of alabaster, each carved with the work of half an artist's life, loaded the light breeze which whispered through the lattice with the richest odours of the season. The painting of the roof--alone a masterpiece!--was executed by such hands as already, if not noble, claimed little less than noble's deference, and showed more even than noble's pride. The mattressed couches, ranged around the chamber, suiting in colour with its pale-blue tapestry, were of a satin, rich, and quaintly patterned, and bordered with embroidery of flowering silver. And those couches, with their pillows of down and velvet--light and elastic as they bounded to the touch--were harsh and rude compared with the bed on which the Countess lay--but she slept not. "Giuletta! Giuletta! The twelfth hour is passed, and still comes he not? Camilla--Girl, canst thou hear nothing--is Camilla surely at the gate?" "What, nothing! why then the messenger----? Yet he had _not_ failed; it was impossible!" "The danger, perhaps?" doubtfully whispered a dark-haired girl, who watched beside the turret-stair. "Danger! When had Lorenzo di Vasari gone back for danger!" "Sickness?"